


The Best of All Possible Worlds

by joespoopy



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst and Feels, Crew as Family, Gen, M/M, Red String of Fate, Rusty Quill Big Bang 2020, Sister Fic Comes Out Soon!, Survivor Guilt, The Unknowing (The Magnus Archives)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-19
Updated: 2020-09-19
Packaged: 2021-03-07 17:54:42
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 12,721
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26541742
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/joespoopy/pseuds/joespoopy
Summary: Tim is ready to confront Jon after he's left out of whatever this "Unknowing" thing is, when he's greeted by an unrecognizable ginger looking too comfortable in the Archivist's office.OR: Some things you don't realize you cherish until they're gone. Or worse.An alternate take of how Season 3 could have gone if MAG114 didn't happen. [w art by @waldos-art on Tumblr]
Relationships: Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist/Tim Stoker
Comments: 7
Kudos: 14





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This work is part of the 2020 Rusty Quill Big Bang of which I applaud all the mods for their patience and passion that made my first year of participating so memorable. Thanks also to WaldosAkimbo for depicting my favorite scene I secretly had the most fun writing, illustrated beautifully, wonderfully, with a bit of mysteriousness (I just REALLY like it).
> 
> Special thanks to:  
> @tma-incorrectquotes [Tumblr] for the Bing/Google exchange  
> Milia on RQBB server/@queemilia on ao3 for the "But is that so bad?" exchange  
> Thaddeus-lich [Tumblr/AO3] for being yourself, encouraging and late, for inadvertently greatly influencing my work

There’s no time.

The trap door bursts open, thudding and rebounding several times against the granite of the basement. It’s still not satisfying enough for Tim’s fury.

The unexpected brightness of the usually gloomy Archives made him stagger for a bit, though he quickly regains his balance.

“You alright there?” A voice chirps.

Tim gives the ginger man the finger, already barreling through the doors leading to the commons area. 

No time for statement givers. Maybe once, in the past, he’d been the one to charm them enough to soothe them from suing the Institute. They’re not his problem anymore.

He doesn’t have time; he has to find Jon.

  
  


Everyone in the Archives commons turns at his arrival, possibly looking like a maniac.

“Tim?” Basira says, keeping a thumb in place as she closes her book. Melanie beside her mirrors her look of confusion. Martin steps out of the dining room, a washcloth and slightly dripping plate in hand.

Tim is heaving, clenches and unclenches his fist, once, then several more times.

“Where. Is he.”

Melanie and Basira continue to contort their faces in confusion but Martin sighs, tucking the dish under his arm.

He gives Tim the most sorry look and it just further boils his blood and--

“Tim,” Martin says voice soft, too soft, placating, careful, exasperated--

“He didn’t react brashly about Danny did he? Maybe it wasn’t a good time.”

Tim jerks, ready to leave, since obviously the person he’s searching for isn’t here.

But he stays in place.

“Don’t!” He raises a hand, stepping forward. “Do _not_ defend him. That is _not_ what I asked.” He looks around the room, amongst their bewildered faces.

“Hang on,” Basira says, “Shouldn’t you have passed him on your way from…” She glances up. “Coming in?”

“What? Of course not.” _Why else would I have asked?_ “There’s only some person waiting to give their statement---” the three of them look at each other--- “so nice job running the place, by the way.”

Tim crosses his arms. “I’m actually surprised Jon isn’t here to tell you all off.”

Basira looks at him, steely-eyed, as she says, “Tim, are you sure you didn’t see Jon in his office?”

Tim frowns, arms slackening. “Yes, I’m sure.” He pauses, before amending, “I know that’s not Jon in there.” 

“But,” Basira continues, that same level tone equivalent to sirens, “you’re sure there was someone there?”

Tim gives a stiff single nod.

Melanie yelps in surprise as Basira leaps over the couch, already brushing past Tim in the next blink of an eye. They all struggle to keep up with her as she zeroes in on the door at the end of the hall.

“Wait, what’s going on?” Tim asks, properly baffled now, “What did I miss?”

Melanie gives Tim a sharp look, going for the inside pocket of her denim jacket.

“No one came past us through the only other way in.”

Basira busts the door open, the rest giving a yell.

The same ginger man from before drops the files he’s carrying with an indignant squawk. 

“Aha!” Tim marches over to the stranger, swiping the papers he’s managed to recollect, “Who are you.” He looks down at statements. “Why are you stealing files, of all things, from The Magnus Institute.”

The uninvited guest cocks his head, an almost adorable look of confusion gracing his features, cheeks pinkening. There’s an exasperated huff from the doorway, and Tim turns to look, to find the others did not follow him.

“Stoker, what’s the meaning of this?” Basira asks, tone now more annoyed in its monotone. Martin has lowered the dish and Melanie’s arms are by her side again.

“Tim?” the stranger says, laughing awkwardly, rubbing his neck.

Tim furrows his brows. _What? How--?_

The man reaches out to Tim, and Tim lets the hand land on his bicep, not knowing what else to do. 

This intruder leans in, analyzing Tim with a confidence he has no right to, then pulls back, though his arm remains.

“Alright,” he says at last, smiling pleasantly, “You don’t have to tell me you had a late one, Tim. Have the rest of the day off.”

The man who is, _is_ _not who he was searching for,_ the swoop in his gut tells him, finally pulls his arm away to point a finger at Tim, tutting.

“Just don’t do it again. I’m new to all this but I think it’s a bit late for even more hazing, Tim.”

Tim starts to retreat back, slow steps to where he knows the trap door exit is waiting for him.

“Tim? Are you alright?” Martin’s voice says, but not loud enough for it to quite drown out the steady beat of rushing blood in his ears, gears clicking in place, stuttering as they do so.

He makes it to the door, climbing down dazedly, to the still concerned judging eyes of the others, when Melanie, already tugging Martin and Basira away says, “O-okay Tim. Can’t believe I’m saying this, but you should, for once, listen to Jon.”

The trap door shuts quickly, before anymore awful realizations can be added. Tim pants in the dark, steadily slumping against the dingy walls of the tunnels.

_There’s no reason for me to care anyway_. 

Tim’s breath manifests in the freezing tunnel air. He drums his fingers on one hand against his heart, slamming against his ribs; the other, dancing across a knee. 

In an instant, memories come to the forefront; images of a tanned face huffing, smoking, hiding a smile, and finally _accusing him of murder_ , pulling _away, twin scars--_

He sighs, breath coming out shaky, resigning himself once more, to the nightmare that is his life, as he rises from his crouch.

“Tim?”

The inquiring concern he once wished for now makes his blood curl at the sound. Not to mention, the tunnels, the last hold against what had been the only eldritch danger, easily crumbles as a safe place. There are no sanctuaries from something that thrives on distorting the refuge of familiarity.

Tim quickly straightens himself, schooling his face though internally kicks himself for retreating here without a thought when there were _clearly_ a room full of people who could and apparently-- he tries to not be too outwardly apprehensive at the… thing teetering left to right-- _would_ follow him after what was to them bizarre behavior.

Well maybe not to this thing.

“What do you want?” He manages, stiffly. Okay so maybe he wasn’t trying that hard.

The Stranger raised his hands up in an endearing gesture of surrender and Tim managed to hold back the deepening of his frown into a full blown scowl. 

Whatever it was, the squealing of hinges drowned it out.

“Jon? You alright in there?” Martin frets in his usual one-sided concern, something that Tim has chalked up to a reflex on Martin’s part that it almost makes him feel like he’s about to be waking up from this nightmare.

Melanie is quick to extinguish the fantasy.

“We better get a move on if we’re still on for tonight,” her voice floats through the trapdoor opening, nonchalant in its obvious distance, “The new place you wanted to try is closing soon.”

Tim stares at the space just to the left of The Stranger’s profile, as it grins easily in levity when it assures they’ll be “just a few moments longer! Not much more!”

Tim can’t help but think he’s ruining the ending of a much beloved Hallmark movie. Jon doesn’t even do Christmas.

Didn’t. 

Fuck.

“You can start work again on Monday, alright? Last time I’m playing favorites, though,” it says, assertive with a disarming charm, in a way Jon never was but he probably wanted to be, what they needed him to be. Or maybe just Tim. It smiles, that easy pull of the lips that tug back his cheeks not quite naturally, before climbing up the ladder. “In the meantime, you might as well join us for a night out. Relax a little.”

Now that was just wrong.

Still, though he knows he’ll follow suit, that he has no other hand to play, he lets the trapdoor shut on him, lets himself catch a minute of breath, several long exhales actually, deciding that if anyone asks he was just a bit slow on the uptake.

In for four. Out for eight. _Just twelve seconds of courage._ Or at least, of boxing away the true momentum what has been replaced.

_This isn’t helping_ , he grits his teeth, shaking his arms loose at his sides, _These thoughts aren’t helping. Pull yourself together._ He stares at his trembling hands, pressed in anticipation against the unyielding wood of the opening. _You’ve already botched it earlier._

He twists his arms as far back as he could before shoving them in his pockets. _This wouldn’t do._

In for four. Out for eight. _Just twelve seconds of courage_. 

_Again._ In for four. Out for eight. _Just twelve seconds of---_

His fingers grasped at nothing. He neck twisted sharply to gawk at his protruding left hand rubbing against the inside lining (and lint, he supposes) of an empty pocket.

Tim clenches his eyes shut, lolling his head back. His thumb presses hard over a clenched fist. 

_Great. Now he has a reason for going back_ . He launches both arms at the double doors before he remembers himself, catching the metal handles. _At least there’s one less lie to keep track of._

With his luck, Tim was sure they’d be upon him as soon as his head popped up from the floor. Eyes glowing or whatever, the body snatched towering over them, amiable demeanor dropped, leering sinisterly, features cracked and rearranged and abnormal like Sa--

Like a Picasso. He’d been meaning to visit the art museum, Tim thinks calmly, bending down as to not let the trap door slam, knuckles white. It had been so long since he’d gone.

Tim turns to find the Archives cleared out. He hears the echo of his breath hitch in the eerie stillness. Until he’s startled by laughter. Genuine cheerful laughter is coming from near the entrance. 

Tim makes his way to a wall, peeking out to watch through the mirror’s reflection.

The... _Thing™_ was in the center of a circle of the other assistants, everyone sincerely hanging onto every word It seemed to be saying. It was gesturing minimally with one hand, the other tucked in his _tailored_ trouser pocket, gaze flicking across the small captive audience.

_Alright then_ . He swallows hard, willing himself to recognize the opportunity being presented here. _What better time to snoop?_

  
  


The office had too many lamps. Sure, the first desk lamp has stayed put, presenting the question of why there was an arched lamp, a buffet lamp, a banked lamp, and a lamp tree. The eerie glow of the lava lamp dulled as he flipped on the switch. 

Tim never felt more exposed, frozen in place in the doorframe.

“Okay,” he grits through clenched teeth, opening and closing his fist, “What’re you up to, motherfucker.” 

He practically hurls himself across the threshold, quick strides forward, making his way to the _too tidy, too tidy_ desk. At least with the new freestanding, he’s able to easily shuffle through the various scrawling manuscripts. He parses through them harsher, as they mostly amount to various statements, no sign of ulterior motives. 

Tim slumps into the office chair, running a hand across his face and trying to stifle a groan. _What was I expecting? A folded up Menace Circus For Hire flyer?_

He straightens as he spots a phone next to the original lamp. He turns it on and the passcode screen stares up at him. Tim scrunches his eyes shut. _Come on think, what was it she taught you?!_ He smacks his forehead a couple of times, willing any useful memories to tumble free.

Tim eventually stops once the stark letterings of “TRY AGAIN IN 5 HOURS” glares at him. 

He swivels and makes eye contact, past the office door with a flapping, faded banner, tucked away behind a filing cabinet at the opposite archive wall. And right next to it, a misshapen lump of paper mache that once passed for a bird pinata.

_Surely it should have been thrown away by now? Elias is rather anal about tidiness. It couldn’t--_

It could. It was. It _is_.

Tim whips his head away, almost sending him careening off the chair but it is too late.

The carefully done letterings of “JOB SURVIVAL APPRECIATION WEEK FOR THE UNDERAPPRECIATED” flash in his retinas as his nails dig into the leather of the chair arms, with nothing else to hold.

  
  
  


  
“Stoker, what is going on here?”   
  
You stretch your arms above your head, definitely not feigning a yawn, midriff showing due to the completely coincidental wardrobe choice of a crop top hoodie.   
  
Jon’s gaze remains a fixed scowl, not straying from your face.

Though expected, of course, you lower your arms with a sigh.  
  
“A little help here?” Sasha huffs in the background.   
  
You throw your best friend-- and current boss (how wild is that)-- a wink and go over to Sasha, eventually a bit more quickly as she seems to sway dangerously on her rickety desk.

“The banner needs to go higher, Sasha, higher!” You cry, delighted, “I already said you can climb on _my_ desk if you need to!”   
  
The scene: the archives where the only remaining semblance of fun is determined to get his new coworkers to have a good time on the company’s dime, with decor bought from the institute tab. 

“I could do this a whole lot better with someone helping!” She says, the annoyance in her voice more teasing than actual irritation.   
  
“Excuse me, I have been _very_ helpful.”   
  
“Ogling is _not_ helping.”   
  
You huff before wrapping your arms around her and lifting her up. “Better, milady?”

She yelps, but she successfully gets the banner high enough.

“If you ever say milady again, I’ll have Jon fire you, you know he’s not against it.” She playfully elbows you in the ribs.

“Don’t worry, Sasha,” he says, already back to examining Serious Things on his clipboard, “I’ve already added it to the queue.” He turns on his heel, about to enter the threshold where shenanigans go to die.

“Hang on now, you actually have to RSVP to get out of this party.”

You stop him leaving, a light clasp of the fingers around his arm.

“And you have to RSVP to get out of not doing your job.”

He pushes a thin yellow ‘Work Leave’ form onto your chest, though you catch his wrist before he could retreat it, pulling him closer.

“Come on, boss,” you sigh, exasperated but endearment still managing to over power it, “We have a legitimate reason to not be doing work now. I mean, how are you even getting your statements down without any Wi-Fi?”  
  
Your thumb flicks across his wrist. “Seriously, if you’ve managed to out-tech the Great and Powerful Sasha and got it back up and running through sheer determination to maintain a good work ethic, I will go with you as your plus one this office Holiday party.”

“Wha--, look--, Tim, I--” Jon squirms, gaze flickering towards his wrist, then back up, eyes filled with, well, something-- “I t-told you last week we’re using that tape recorder you found.”

It’s been this way now, with the new uneven playing field, the dance Jon does as he skirts between pompous and badly hidden insecurity to make up for the sudden shift. Jon has always been good at keeping you on your toes.

“See? That’ll make killer marks on your yearly review. Something definitely worth celebrating.”

But Jon is already backing up. “Don’t be ridiculous. There’s. There’s other matters that concern someone of my position. Like filing.”

You let your best friend slip past your grip, watching him turn his back on you.

“I have to review all of yours as well, not just my own-- as well as administrative duties! Goodness, I’m supposed to get on that. Right away. Don’t disturb me.” Jon says, against the shelter of the doorframe, then it shuts firmly behind him.

Sasha and Martin flank your sides, but you dodge their reaching arms as you’re saved by an absolute bop. 

It’s hard to keep the tone light at a place like this but you do give it... a whirl.

You groove to that funky beat, eventually dancing near Martin. 

“Martin come on! Show off those moves!” You shoot him finger guns and throw in an added Stoker wink. Martin stammers, clearly experiencing tone whiplash. You decide to try your irresistible charm on Sasha when he glances back at the closed door.

Sasha rolls her eyes and smiles, probably about to remind you that this is an office party. But, as said before, irresistible charm. She joins.

“HELL YEAH SASHA!” You dare a shimmying sashay, committing crimes with your hip swaying. An idea occurs to you as the music gets more hype.

”CONGA LINE!” You grab both of them.

“Shouldn’t we finish setting up first?” Martin asked, caught off guard with suddenly being shoved. “And did you _really_ get away with using Archives funds?”

You roll your eyes fondly. These two. At least it reminds you of why you’re “being so ridiculous,” as Jon had said this morning. There’s a pang of sadness as you remember how easy it was to drag Jon into your shenanigans during shared late nights at research.

You shake off the thought. You spot another banner and grab it. 

“Multitasking!” you say, not stopping dancing to twirl it around Martin and rhythmically walking over to pin it.

Sasha tsks, amused, but jolts as she notices you’re right next to the shelf of mugs. “Tim, watch out for the shelf!”

“Oh right!” You boogie to your desk, away from the Important Papers and Mugs before scoffing.

“And Martin, you think I would successfully use Jon’s miscellaneous Archives budget on the Institute’s tab for unapproved non-Archive related things?”

You take a minute to bend down before hoisting up a giant owl pinata in triumph over your head. 

“Hell yeah I did!” 

Martin giggles but still tries to get you to calm down. 

“Should we also be concerned about the list Jon has, Tim?” He juts a thumb at the still closed door. 

Sasha nods solemnly. “He’s usually alright with me, but- well, I don’t know. It’s kind of a dick move to suddenly close yourself off from people you were on equal footing with just a month ago.”

Martin raises an eyebrow, pinning his side of the banner up. “Maybe we should try to persuade him again. What do you think Tim?”

You are entangled in a heated salsa with Jimmy Magma the owl. 

“You know what they say, Martin,” you quip brightly over your shoulder, “You can bring an archivist to water…” You throw it over your head before catching and dipping it. 

“But you can’t make him partaayyy!” You start spinning fervently. 

Sasha laughs unceremoniously, and hooks her arm around yours, locking each other in a sort of half-dance-half-spin. She gestures for Martin to join. Martin opens his mouth to say something, decides against it, and joins in with his fellow co-workers. 

You spin your coworkers round and round. With each spin, a care floats away. A spin

and Elias catching them is gone. You look at the two blurs in your arms: Martin’s closed smile, still not quite trapping his giggles, Sasha red faced, eyes bright. A spin and a spin and you can almost let yourself believe your arms alone are enough to keep them upright, not just in this moment. But you let yourself feel this moment, the music crescendos, the two people you care about in your arms and the third nearby. A spin and any lingering bitterness of his absence is gone, a wistful amnesty in its place. You can thank Jon at least for dragging you along.

“Excuse me--”

“Sorry to interrupt--”

Two people awkwardly crowd the single entrance into the archive commons. 

Martin flusters detaching himself from the chain, wringing his hands as he attends to one of them, apology bubbling over his lips in haste. Sasha, too, leaves to actually do her job, though she shoots a grateful glance at you in her retreat. You hesitate to perhaps go join them, as perhaps you’re pushing it in what you can get away with but let them have at it as soon as you hear about strange fog and aching emptiness.

“Back to business as usual with those two,” you murmur fondly, rubbing away the tinge of emotion curling in your chest. You look down at the slightly stepped on

owl. 

“Whoops! Didn’t see you there Jimmy Magma!” You pick it up and fix the cracks.

“Just us two against the world, ay?” You hum happily as you go back to actually

finishing up the decorations.

  
  


He shuddered as he could finally sense his clammy skin. In his shakiness, Tim managed to huff a petty chuckle at the line of pulpy ruin he’d marked onto the chair. Then the feeling in his legs came back and he kicked them out playfully as his shoulders ceased to tense and he dropped back in frustration more on his current dilemma, eyeing the phone.

Maybe he remembered it wrong, then. _Or rather, remembered her wrong more like. What if he was remembering everyone wrong. Now that Jon was replaced, the only person he thought was untouchable--_

_It was always Jon. It had to be him, of course._

Tim clutches the curled palm of his hand. _It wasn’t even about fate. Tim firmly believes whether or not spooky things happened to make it this way, Jonathan Sims was innately capable, through his on nature, to cause irreparable arsery, burning_ _any_ _built bridges that were there for years of trust, an extended helping hand--_

He growls, dragging the hand across his face.

“Okay Google, how do I get revenge on those who have wronged me?” 

Surprisingly, the phone AI chirps, picking up his voice.

“THE BEST REVENGE IS LETTING GO AND LIVING WELL.”

Tim stares down at the screen.

“Bing, how do I get--”

The main overhead lights flip on.

“Tim?”

_Fuck._   
  
“Shouldn’t you already be off?” At the last second, he manages to turn the accusing remark into a casual question, probably not convincingly, though. 

Sure enough, he gets that same… infuriatingly adorable head tilt. It felt like a copier alien, mimicking a puppy before it devoured it. But no matter, Tim had to keep himself in better check. Nothing was wrong, after all, in this warped reality he found himself in. 

He soon found out just how… strange the pleasantries reached.

“We were waiting for you, Tim--” The way his name falls from his lips feels like ash-- “We always get weekly drinks together.”

_Drinks._ Tim slams the thoughts that bubble, the flashes of images of shut doors on invitations when a simple no would suffice, straight into the back wall of his mind before his face could give him away.

“Oh,” he croaks out and _blast it all to hell._

“We-- I--” it says, hand on its chest to assume full responsibility, “thought it best if we picked it up again. We’ve dropped the ball a bit and it’s through my own shortcomings as well.”  
  
This time it tilts its head in apology which Tim believes is the worst part of the change yet.

_Or maybe. Or maybe it’s a reprieve. There’s nothing to be done about. About what’s._

_Anyway, there’s no use bringing up the past._

“Yeah you got me it was mostly my idea, ahaha. I really think we both need to be working on our respective sides if we want to build our bridge, pardon the rather cheesy analogy.” It smiles, shyly, turning to the free standing hanger that’s here now, jutting out of its hiding spot behind the office door where once, despite the clutter of files Jon insisted they drape their dripping coats over on their own chairs-- _it’s a safety hazard you know. Who knows when we’d need to make a quick exit?_ “I’d love to have you.”   
  


The phrasing isn’t great. The situation Tim studies the stranger as it buttons up its coat, looking up to catch Tim’s gaze and smiling pleasantly.   
  
_Okay so this isn’t Jon---_

“Hey if it helps your decision making at all, the drinks will be on me.”

\--- _But is that so bad?_

“Did you return just to invite me or…?” Tim ignores the fact that it _is_ technically its office but it also technically is an eldritch monster that killed the original owner so. Many technicalities would have to be ignored for now.

The Thing™ smiles down, staying behind him so Tim has to crane his neck around to look at it. The desk lamp casts a garish glow on its face.

“Welp, had to come back for…” It gestures halfheartedly at the phone in Tim’s hand. Tim gives the same effort of an apology, not chancing any skin contact and dropping it onto the table.

It seems to allow the passive aggressive maneuver, grabbing it with an amiable smile on its face before turning to go.

“So ya coming or what?” The words were too loose in its too slack mouth.

Tim pockets his trembling fingers.

“Sure.” _I might as well be there to see how it turns out_.

  
  


“Didn’t know it’d turn out like this.”

Tim traces the glass patterns of his drink as Melanie leers over him. 

“Come on, Stoker,” Basira sides, the only one of them taking advantage of the booth, leaning her back against it, “I’d thought you’d be the happy drunk.”   
  


“What’re you talking about?” He says, voice chipper enough to break the thorough glass of the mugs, “I’m-- I’m having a great time. Exhausted is all.”

“You looked like you’d seen a ghost today,” Melanie points out, easily compartmentalizing the group versus Tim. She, like everyone else, had been enjoying a routine of weekly camaraderie, falling into dynamics so easily there’s no way anyone would think this was the first time they’d ever hung out in a casual social setting.

Everyone except for Tim. Because that was the truth. As far as he knew, the Stranger worked like an elaborate mass hysteria, picking up a phantom notion of how things worked out of the blue, supernaturally sweeping everyone along rather than distort the timeline into an alternate universe. Though, as he had been about to throttle Jon earlier for, Tim didn’t know as much as he wanted to. As much as he should. As much as he had a _right_ to.

Tim’s gaze snagged on the side to side swaying across him, burnt orange hair not reflecting the way it should with the light. It’d be a lie if this thing was the sole reason Tim had to remind himself alcohol doesn’t make your shoulders tense. It was the new reality, dream like in its fulfillment.

It was the: “my _leather,_ softly-handled, thrifted tights, Stoker? Really?! I just got these!” gripe from Melanie when he spilled the ketchup from a sudden twitch of the hand. It was the: Martin mothering with an exasperated fondness he hasn’t seen in ages, gently but firmly gripping his wrist to gently guide the mug down. 

It was all so… 

Nice. 

“Oh yeah, you’re what? The resident GHOST expert now?” he accuses trying for playfulness. 

Martin’s drink stops to puff his cheeks while Melanie prioritizes gawking, letting the napkin fall to the floor without a blink. 

The ginger does that endearing tilt again, fondness making its head from the side of its neck. It should be broken, at that angle.

Tim manages to not do a full body sigh of relief when Basira returns from the bathroom but it’s easier to let that giddy bliss crinkle his eyes.

“What’ve you been up to, Basira?” he asks and her furrowed brows make it known it was the wrong thing to ask.

“You took me to that welding class last week,” she looks to the others and they affirm her confusion with their own contorting their faces, “I texted you about it last night? About how the new instructor kept mansplaining everything. In an _advanced_ class?” Melanie hummed in knowing. “Are you sure you’re okay, Tim?”

He gives a shaky smile in response to the dead stares, shifting his weight on the unyielding press of the bench, subtly shoving his marked hand in his pocket. His thumb presses hard over a clenched fist.

He ducks his head, breathing evenly. The thumb snags on the red knot he knows is tied around his pinkie, fluttering over it.

_Showtime?_

_Showtime._

Tim drops his elbow onto the table, his head falling onto his palm as he huffs.

“Just some love problems,” he sighs, forlornly.

Melanie snickers while Martin elbows her, clearly giving Tim more respect.

“You’re valid, Tim, what’s wrong?” he says, though nodding as if he has been down this path before.

Tim shakes his head, not meeting anyone’s eyes but mostly so he doesn’t have to see how the replacement is taking this.

To make up for this lack of visuals, it coos, “That’s terrible, Tim, I’m sure you don’t deserve anything short of the most fantastical romance.”

The sentiment is acrid, the lilt crawling up his arm.

Tim clears his throat, disguising it as choking back emotion, pulling back the arm to trace at the rim of his mug as he directs his gaze to the brick wall.

“It’s… a lot to deal with in a short period of time--” and boy does life imitate art but whatever; the most resonant performances take a piece of the personal-- “I think Imma sit on these emotions. Let ‘em stew for a bit.”

Everyone agreed, or, well, Martin did that same knowing nod, Melanie raised a glass in solidarity, Basira did her version of a snort, and--

And glassy eyes regarded him inquisitively. The still life was so jarring, Tim was sure his face viscerally reacted out of some primal instinct. He was glad for the smooth glide of the drink down his throat, thumbing the ribbon all the while.

The ginger clapped, the sound loud yet snuffed the next second and Tim was sure his paranoia had invented it if not for Melanie complaining about another stain and Martin clutching his chest.

“Oops my bad but I had the most wonderful idea,” the ginger said, too wide grin slathered across rosy cheeks. 

Tim could feel the dig of the corners into the rubber skin.

“We were speaking about our hobbies and I got back into an old one of mine: theater.”

It spread its spindly hands out above them in an arc.

“And well, I had been working so hard on my next big piece--” it paused to get some sort of affirmation, Tim only missing half a beat before nodding along with the others, “that I didn’t stop to consider that everyone seems to be… at the end of their string.”  
  
Tim stiffened, the world narrowing into a fine point.

“It’s nothing, really. I sleep just as soundly if not more at night,” he jokes, swallowing bile.

“Nah, I wanna hear this,” Melanie says, not even looking away from it, “Beats what we do all day, under Elias’s thumb.”  
  
Basira cheers to that, clinking her mug of water with the dark amber of Melanie’s half-empty spirit.

The stranger is positively beaming. Tim is being pulled under in the wave of dread coursing through him.

“Well! We should put on a play!”  
  


Tim groans.

The ginger elbows him and the give of its flesh against his is enough for him to stiffen once more.

“Oh don’t be such a sourpuss. Think of it as another step of drinks bonding nights--”  
  
 _I don’t even wanna be part of drinks bonding nights_ , and Tim almost grimaces at being on the other side of this comment--

But the more worrying aspect was of course what the hell this entity had in store for what was basically its opponent; it couldn’t be a good omen if the Stranger wanted to involve several people from a Beholding stronghold, and with such whimsical assurance in succeeding. 

Forty two minutes later and with no luck in even budging the other’s adamant clamoring to be part of this trojan farce and Tim was starting to realize why, dread building until it sank like a stone in his gut. 

“The more the merrier as I always say,” it finishes, chipper as anything. The rest of the amused or friendly bemused expressions on the rest of everyone’s faces also speak to the fact that, well, no one really does have a care in the world. As far as _this_ version of the assistants are concerned, agreeing animatedly, sure the contract they have is shit, practically reducing them to hostages but they could find solace in this little group. They _found_ each other.

Tim wishes for the burn of the whiskey but only gets the seeping numbness of dreams deferred.

  
  


He feigned sleepiness for his sharp drop in verbage, barely offering a thought to look back at the not quite parting group of coworkers on the pub steps.

It took him a while before he realized the chill was coming from the weather. And that his feet had guided him to the back alley of the institute tunnels.

He kicked a stray pebble without any real malice, the adrenaline crash setting in.

He leaned down to toss it idly in his palm.

_Well this was certainly the worst way to make an unforgettable night_ , he thinks, almost smiling at what was almost a passable joke.

Tim let the pebble crumble into dirt, passing through his fingers until there was nothing left to hold, turning his hand over in the streetlight.

_Since he was here, he might as well do that thing he had been putting off on doing,_ says a snobby voice, the idea too efficient to be his own that it makes him huff even as his chest curls with bittersweet emotion. If tonight was going to flay him until he had made admission, he wasn’t going to fight this one that was a long time coming. 

It wasn’t the first time he wanted to hear the ease in that voice again, even if this was the first time the desire wasn’t unaccompanied by the fury itching under the matching scars.

Tim tilted his head and let the faint impression of a pursed lips, thoroughly unimpressed, breeze past him with the wind.

The pitter patter of footsteps switched his vigilance back on. 

Tim practically snapped back into a straight rod, fists curled at the ready.

The looming presence of company encroached ever closer with each step echoing off the cement narrow sides of the alley.

Tim breathed evenly as he tilted his head to the side, just enough so it wouldn’t seem like he was trying to look.

His periphery only showed the dim path he had come from.

Alone.

Before he could kick himself from separating from the others, the rapid, light footfalls sounded once more before a soft thud was heard.

Taking that as a cue, Tim whirled around, fists at the ready.

The silence was quick to swallow the ricochet of his battle cry. 

Tim was left face to face with an abandoned pigeon plushie left on the pavement. His hands shook as his palm adjusted to the familiar weight, trembling fingers finding their way back to the stitching waiting for him, thread the same shade as the one around his pinkie.

Alarms bells sounded a duet with the blood rushing in his ears as he quickly ducks into the doorway, fumbling for just a second before pushing the entrance open.

_Seems this night still has some memories in store for him_.

  
_  
_

_When Evan Lukas was born, there was a strong attachment, a pull that everyone in the room felt towards him. It wasn't the bright eyes or the immediate gummy smile or unusual crows feet from the baby, no, it was the way he was cold the touch, like a true Lukas only is after initiation and grooming, the way he had caused immediate grief coming into this world by severing a tie with a very important life in the Lukas hierarchy, an infliction so great, only full fledged avatars marked by their god could do. And oh, the deeper the connection, the stronger the loneliness when it is not reciprocated. The elders smile mirthly behind the masks and some try hard to keep the thought that this will be a weapon onto others at the forefront of their minds. Yet the doubts have already been sown._

He pinches the bridge of his nose, pushing the glare of the lamp away.

“Statement of Evan Lukas ends--” The Archivist sighs-- “For now.”

Jon turns the tape off, breathing out.

“Right then, this seems to be a diary entry of sorts,” he clicks the ballpoint pen, scribbling notes on a notepad for follow up, “about a member of the Lukas family. The same one it seems that Naomi Herne was engaged to, and most importantly, centered her… encounter in her statement about.”

“Now--” Jon drags his finger down the page, stopping on the description of a tie exhibited, “it’s interesting that Evan’s connection with people is yet another centerpiece of a, well, statement.” He flips the photocopied page back and forth.

“This seems more in line with the letters to Jonah than a filed paperwork form that’s administered to statement givers who are unable to provide an interview. It’s… actually unclear why we have this in the… first place.”

Jon leans back in his seat, staring at the grainy black and white paper.

“Or how.” He shakes his head. “Well this is reminiscent of a museum of sorts and what, if not appropriating personal items as part of academic meritorical displays are British museums known for, hmm?” He pushes his chair back in, picking up his pen once more.

“And yes, Elias, I am heeding your warning on coming after the Lukas family, our esteemed donors,” he makes sure to at least mark down his suspicions or rather confusion on why this is considered a statement in the first place, “and that is why I am blowing off steam by remarking on the influences of colonialism in academia.”

“Anyway, what jumped out to me and I’m sure most people encountering Ms. Herne’s statement was the fact that a person of the Lonely could not only have a bond with someone else, but call upon it, willfully, and apparently have such profound a bond that they are able to do so beyond the grave it seems. I thought it’d be an anomaly but it seems Evan has had this proclivity since the very--”

The blue ink fades into the yellow of the notepad.

“Hmm.” Jon scratches on the pad some more, to no avail. He sighs, setting the pen down. 

“I, uh, believe perhaps Evan, unaware or not,” He grits as he rifles through his drawer, closing it perhaps a bit roughly as he’s met with not a single other pen in, y’know, an office desk, “could have been an avatar---”  
  
Jon gets up to search through some boxes. “Perhaps why the Lukas family seemed so keen on getting him to stay if he’s had the powers--” he struggles to rip through the packaging tape which apparently is also used to seal the tombs of Egyptian pharaohs--- “since birth--”

  
Jon blinks. He finds a pencil in his hand, taking notes on an index card. The tape recorder whirrs. 

“I…” He tears his gaze away from the pencil, crooked between his fingers. He looks at the parchment tucked in a sleeve of a binder. 

Something itches in the back of his head.

He pinches the bridge of his nose as, to be expected, a migraine sets in. He inhales and exhales a couple more times, struggling through it. After a couple more times, he relents and decides to just deal with the reduction to eye throbbing. It’s probably the light directly shining on his face anyway. He gets up to shift the free standing lamp that squeaks something obscene as it’s moved.

“Right then,” he sits back down, “This particular statement seems to be an account of rearing up Evan Lukas who’s unusualness from the Lukases apparently manifested,” he picks up the pencil, scoffing as ink fails to come out, scratching at the back of the index card a few times before the blue comes through, “since early age and only progressin-- _waaaa--_ ”

He chucks the pencil as he stumbles from his chair, crashing to the floor though he continues to scramble away.

The pencil teetered on the edge of the desk, back and forth, back and forth, and, with a jolt of energy that shouldn’t have been, bounced onto the chair, then onto the floor.

It shouldn’t have been a pencil. Pencils… pencils don’t have ink, do they?

It rolled closer and Jon hitched up his knees as he stared.

_There was something, something he was--_

  
  


_“I got this--” a cough, just to duck rapidly reddening cheeks (Get it together Jon)-- “to help with the--”_

_He gestures with the pen, grip slackening with sweat. The pen was--_

Jon jolts, straightening himself, waking from some sort of stupor. 

“Violet! It was violet!” 

The pencil stops. Then moves back just a budge.

Jon stares, _sees_ , and there.

A violet fountain pen.

The thought that maybe he shouldn’t only cause him to stutter in his mad grab for the thing but then his fingers close around it and.

And the back half is missing.

The door burst open, surely putting a dent in the wall if it weren’t for the dream mechanics of this place.

Though, with the concern on Tim’s face, Jon wonders if he’d wish it.

**“** Were you attacked?” Tim frets, a foot straddling the threshold, “I heard some scuffling and nearly got caught with how loud my gasp was.”

“I’m quite fine,” he assures, standing up before his jello legs give up from under him. He soothes Tim, even as the _generous, good, undeserving, caring_ , brunette catches him.

There’s a pause in his rambles when this happens, before Jon catches himself, wondering what the lull was for.

“Really,” he says, up at Tim’s face, “Just a scratch.”

He shows him the burn on his palm from his mad crawl to the shelf, already just a few lines and some pink splotches.

Tim charitably holds his arm instead. He holds both of them and it’s quite nice actually. 

“Did you find some statements to read? What happened?”  
  
He turns his head just a bit as his gaze lands on the pen in Jon’s grip, half of his face covered in shadow. Jon realizes he’s been fiddling with it, his fingers pushing at the missing top in a practiced motion.

“What is that?” He asks. Jon looks away from the pen and Tim laughs, or rather giggles. He drags Jon down with him as he leans against several unidentified rucksacks. Jon tries to make himself comfortable pressed next to his arm without too much squirming, careful not to ruin this new thing between them.

“I had a-- uh. Another episode.”

Tim tsked, the pity he’d felt since they’d found themselves stuck clear in his forgiveness.

“That’s awful,” he cooed, leaning back into the rucksacks, “How about you rest for now? We can discuss it more later.”  
  
Jon reared up to ask him what he had found from his patrol, fear spiking with his curiosity. But who was he to disturb the peace? Nightmares hadn’t come, perhaps from being trapped in one, and the statements they found were far and few between. He had to settle for any peace of mind he could grasp onto.   
  
Including the one that always indulged him with open arms.   
  


Jon swallowed the ball of anxiety lodged in his throat, willing himself to relax in the safety of ginger curls tickling his cheek, letting their synced breaths drag him into unconsciousness.

**  
  
**

The page in his hand stills as a shadow appears in the next one’s corner.

“You should really leave the sneaking up to me,” Tim says, nostrils flaring, though he has it in him to not turn around. 

He closes the book as Basira steps out into the lampstand’s light. 

“You’re lurking like an eight rate Bond villain.” His mouth goes taut as the bile rises at the bitter punchline. He stretches his fingers wide and breathes in four, breathes out eight. It’s supposed to be eight right? He decides he needs eight when he sees his own wary suspicion looking down at him.

“Found a new spot to brood, then?” She accuses by way of greeting.

Tim turns back to the musty old book, thumb digging an impression into the thin paper.

“Spooky libraries don’t follow the peace and quiet aspect of regular old libraries either?”

Tim has to actually resist the urge to walk off when he hears the squeal of the chair being pulled next to him. He closes the book hard, taking some satisfaction from watching her frantically bat away the rising dust. It doesn’t deter her and when the air clears she’s stayed.

Tim pointedly goes back to reading about the history of traveling circuses in Europe. Most people probably won’t expect it of such a big extrovert but he can maintain silence. Though it’s debatable if he still qualifies as an extrovert when he’s dodging people with the stealth of a ninja.

“You’re quite stubborn, you know that?”

The Circus Maximus was rebuilt over and over until it could hold nearly three hundred thousand spectators. 

She scoffs. Tim half expects her to follow it up with a comparison, as most people cheekily do who know both of them, until he remembers. 

He shifts in his seat.  
  
“Cut the shit.” He closes the book, sets it to the side diplomatically, cover down. “You want to talk? Or is there usually one on ones after drinks?”

Basra watches him calmly all the while.  
  
“You won’t accept I’m just here to whinge about the workshop again?”   
  
Tim has to get himself in better condition if he’s made fewer jokes in a social setting than _Basira_ in a night.   
  
“I checked the texts-- about the ‘whinging’? From last week.” He crosses his arms, though his regard of her doesn’t devolve into paranoia, thank you very much. He’s just out here for the facts, s’all. “They were all one sided.”

He of course checked them, he had to know when nothing was certain anymore. At first he thought it was a shoddy attempt to establish a lie, seeing rows of received texts from her with no response. It was strange behavior on her part, especially considering her work, but police have done less effort for less things. 

Strange but probable. 

Until it got stranger.

It wasn’t that Tim was ignoring her texts, she was actually carrying on a conversation, a _two_ -sided one with only one making it through to his phone. There was even an instance where she had screenshotted a previous message of his, indicating when he’d pick her up from the workshop, to gripe about being late; a message that never existed.

Had he deleted them? In this reality? Did it work like stepping into a whole new parallel universe?  
  
He remembers the flabbergasted reactions and responses to his missteps at the pub and wonders if, perhaps instead, the universe is catching on to the bug in the simulation.

“Tim, what are you talking about.” Basira’s deadpan delivery is more flat than usual, not quite coming from her mouth, but Tim still continues to push on, carefully, slowly, leaning to the side to take out his phone before, carefully, slowly, he extends a hand to show her. It’s akin to approaching a cornered animal to let it out, the mood pulled taut in baited breath for the consequence. 

The light from the screen, Tim swears, hits her high cheekbones at the wrong angle. Her melanin soaks in some of it like sunlight. Tim tries so very hard to keep the tremor from his fingers and face impassive, eyes locked downward on the red knot around his ring finger.

There’s the sound of shifting, and Tim steels himself to catch whatever microexpression she’d been trained to conceal, so he exhales and looks up and--

And there’s a crease.   
  
A crease not in the air or on her or even what could rationally be explained as a tear in his cornea but a crease in _reality_. There’s a crease in reality and Tim forces himself not to blink as it ripples through different versions of Basira’s reaction before presenting him with a world as still as the surface of an undisturbed forgotten lake.

Tim blinks and Basira is leaning back slightly. Tim blinks and she’s taking the phone out of his hands, her words coming back into focus, a note of confusion, apprehension, perhaps even some genuine concern, before he’s looking down at the screen again and sees---  
  
He sees responses coming from him.

Tim sighs, long, but happy, _happy_ , --friendly-- and beats the hysteria to the back of his throat to keep himself from screaming. 

“Ah,” he manages. _I’m tired_ , he wants to say and does but wouldn’t be surprised right now if the words were said even as he continued to clench his jaw shut. 

He remembers more colorful words when she plainly admits she followed him.

“---ing Jesus _Christ_ , Basira--” to which she cheekily says “Who?”-- “What a way to establish trust.”   
  
She shrugs a shoulder. “It’s not my fault you were acting off all night.”   
  
Tim chews his lip.

“I was acting off? You were in the bathroom for a very long time.”  
  
Basira gives him a look.   
  
Tim gives her one back.   
  
Basira acquiesces with a shrug. “See what I mean? You’re pretty on edge which, yeah, makes sense in our collective context but I have no idea why you’re turning on us.”   
  
“So you’re admitting you’re reporting back to that--” _weird, murder cop_ is what he was about to say but Basira’s glare kills it before it comes out.   
  
“Is that what you think I was doing?” She says when Tim huffs back against his seat, “I was, what, secretly communicating nefarious plots to _Daisy_ in a public bathroom?”

  
It’s Tim’s turn to try for a nonchalant shrug, though the night’s slog of twists has it feel less satisfying than what he’s sure Basira feels when she does it, probably why she does it all the time.

“Dunno. Sounds like the genius of an eight rate Bond villain. Suits you but you tell me.”

She scoffs. “That’s ridiculous. Like I said, I was planning on following you anyway and I had a hunch you were going back to the institute. Everyone knows the institute doesn’t have mirrors and I had just eaten some of that salad--”  
  
“Wait what?” Tim straightened up. “What do you mean the institute doesn’t have mirrors?”   
  
Before she could protest, Tim stood straight up, dashing off towards the nearest bathroom. He threw the doors open.   
  
No mirrors.   
  
He panted, blood pumping in bewilderment before slamming the door shut, making for the one across the hall, where there was one giant mirror on the wall and a bathroom with several smaller ones over the sinks. No mirrors.   
  
“Tim,” Basira tried, though wisely staying in place through his sprint around the second floor. Once he got in the elevator, she was quick to hop on. No mirrors here either, though there had been on each side; now only mahogany panels boxed them in as Tim’s stomach lurched with the descent.   
  
“If you tell me what’s going on, I could help.”   
  
Tim didn’t, couldn’t look at her. The scarred metal of the railing distorting his face in mockery. “You were just, you were all _by_ one before we left.”   
  
The doors opened and he rushed out, climbing down the steps to the archives, Basira hot at his heels as he marched past the lounge, the break room, the office, all of it.   
  
The short hallway they had all crowded around? Chattering like they had all the time in the world? No mirrors. Smooth, unblemished, not even a single wound from a nail.   
  


Much to her credit, Basira opens her own book. She seems to be actually reading it, though it doesn’t seem to be for any research.  
  
Tim looks down at his rub rawed hands, pink splotches ravaging his knuckles. His own book lays on the table, untouched.

At least, it could’ve been worse. She had tugged at his arms, to pull them from the wall. Next, a slow inquiry if they should head back to the library. After a nod, met with her own, she nudged him to the elevator and all the way there. She chose not to let her sight dwindle, though her grip on his wrist tightened.   
  
“That’s a good book.”

She startles out of her stupor, looking at him. He looks back, mouth a firm line but neutral.

“I was just saying--” he’s not sure why his voice is so croaky -- “Infestation of Hauntings in Homes.” He gestures to the cover, which has the title printed in gold lettering, though worn through the years with presumably many readers tracing the curves and lines. 

“What do you like about it?” she says, edging closer. Tim ignores the tentativeness in her voice in favor of nodding thoughtfully, sincerely considering. 

They fall into a brisk discussion. She actually does find the book comforting in its analysis of the trope of haunted houses, though, of course, it treats these things as facts. Tim can’t quite separate his reproachful but ultimately disbelieving nature from his time in the publishing firm with his own personal experiences, mostly from his household, when reading the book. Basira rightly points out the novel seems to encourage the straddling of beliefs, reading like a Hitchhiker's Guide to Sinister Happenings. Except, Tim retorts, Douglas Adams in this case really is writing an actual manual, it is a real manual, though the understanding of the mechanics of something of this nature is so fantastical that even with all his experiences he can’t help but be drawn into it. The night wears on but Tim can’t help but find comfort in not enduring it alone.

“Honestly the idea of being an unwanted guest in a house -- being hated -- is not as scary to me as the flipside,” Tim says, leaning forward and throwing his hands up.

“Right?” Basira retorts, flipping through the pages as evidence, “Like, a house that, in its time of being alone, turns not to bitterness but obsession.”

“A house that upon the arrival of any human life,” a voice says from above them. They turn to look, all semblance of easy camaraderie dissipating as reality floods back in. Tim looks at Basira and she’s Basira again. 

They find the backs of their chair quite easily as Elias emerges and stands to fill in the gap between them.

“--Becomes enraptured with its guest.” He looks down at Basira, her mask of neutrality slipped so easily on, like slithering into a second skin. Tim’s lips curl as do his insides. _Or perhaps the friendly facade was the second skin_.

“It pleads not to be left alone.” Tim lets his scowl reach its full fruition as Elias directs the knowing glint of his eyes and restrained twitch of his lips at him.

“Are you here to have your cake and eat it too?” he spits.

“No,” Elias says, wiggling his shoulders and smoothing the front of his jacket lapels, “I’ve just stuffed myself I think.”

It sets off alarm bells in Tim’s head, with how Elias is, but… it’s how Elias is. Everything about the creep sets off his alarm bells, as it should. And he’s just so tired.

“I’m really not allowed breathing space tonight, am I?” Tim sighs, long and heavy with the exhalation, pitching his elbows on the table and holding his much too heavy head.

Elias chuckles. 

“You’ve always had the knack for figuring out the inevitable.” 

Tim shoots him a look but Basira is interjecting.

“You’ve read this then?” She lifts the book slightly but Elias is reaching out to examine it in his own hands.

“Ah, yes,” he says wistfully, flipping through the pages, “This is quite the deep dive. One of my favorites.”

Tim greens considerably at the aspect of sharing an interest with Elias and looking across, Basira seems to be having the same preferences as well.

“You read?” he scoffs, “I thought you’d just--” he gestures-- “ **Know** it. I’m surprised you’ve still retained literacy.” Tim says, something close to bravery (or perhaps it’s more of that nihilistic recklessness he’s been on recently) swelling in his chest and guiding his elbow to rest on the back of the uncomfortably, very much so plastic wooden chair.

“I suppose not all of us can waste away our potential poring over the written words of others for a career.” Elias tilts his head. “Though not much has changed except the scenery, I think.” 

A deft stab, just knicking the tender spot where he’s not allowed to go. Tim wonders if the Eye told him just where to hit, or his foolish, desperate naivety at their first meeting helped guide the knife. 

Elias turns to Basira, probably to finish her off. _And top off his power trip with a big finish_.

“I see you’re hard at work with researching the statement I asked you to follow up.” He gingerly turns over and closes every book Basira’s brought over to the table.

“I never accepted,” she says, and Tim’s something like glad without its usual kick at the fact he’s not the only one shrugging off his eldritch minion duties.

“You’re still under my employ Hussein,” he says, almost biting, before leaning back into himself, self-assuredly. “Besides, this is me bestowing an opportunity for you to clean up your messes under your last employer.”

Tim’s sure there’s a tremor along Basira’s jawline, but it's hard to be certain with her skin tone in the dim lighting.

“I escaped through the skin of my teeth,” she says, maintaining unflinching eye contact. A loose flap of her hijab along her neck trembles in either the more than sufficient air conditioning or the same fear that’s causing the pulse of her chin. “You know this. For a beating heart, you sure are remorseless. I’ve got nothing left to help me, Bouchard. I don’t have weapons. And now you’ve isolated me. I don’t even have back up.”

“Don’t be so histrionic, Basira.” He looks over at Tim and Tim knows, he’s known since the thread of this conversation or perhaps the sheer terror in Basira’s gritted words wound their way towards him and tied him to the spot, just exactly where this was headed.

“Me,” he finishes, meeting them at the ending of the chain of dominos, “You want me, a civilian, to accompany a cop-- sorry estranged, elite, super cop on a top secret eldritch mission.”

“You’re hardly a civilian--” Elias begins, dismissively, but Tim cuts him off, leaning sideways to establish some sort of contact with Basira.

“Did you _know_ about this?” He accuses. Honestly, it shouldn’t even surprise him. And it’s not the lively jolt of a birthday surprise or whip of crisp wind on the roof. Though the thing he begrudgingly concedes he believed to be bonding just moments earlier makes this betrayal dig a bit more sharply than the usual dull aches and muffled pain he’s been coasting through for the past months.

“I figured that’s why she sought you out,” Elias smugly ascerns.

Basira spares Tim what passes for a guilty glance, the performatory vibes making his teeth clench but looks up at Elias.

“He really is just a civilian, Bo- Elias,” she says.

Elias chuckles again, mirthful, clearly enjoying having his cake and gorging on it too.

“I don’t believe you’re at all familiar with hi--”

“Still,” Basira continues, straightening in the chair, bargaining, as if she gives a damn and this isn’t just compensation, or worse--

“You can’t expect-- he’s just--”

There’s more back and forth before, light years away and muffled from the suffocating fog that fills Tim’s lungs. Tim looks at his rubbed raw hands. He’s sure the knotted bow, for all it is, is wilting. He can’t be sure of anything tonight, though, except where this all ends. Tim steps in and just accepts, resigned but when Elias leaves he’s embittered at Basira who looks at him sadly.

They return to their books but not the camaraderie. Basira’s book is still strewn to the side and she ends up just staring down at her phone. Tim is frowning at the rectangular outline of a block of text, unable to see sentences. He can sense the familiar tugs, that familiar sharp throb inching its way into consciousness, and before he can properly beg that _please, not another tonight,_ it washes over him.

  
  
_I can give you a ride after work tomorrow, since I know where it is._

You said this as a way to subtly draw attention to the invitation. Yet you still find yourself taking up too much space in a table meant for two and surrounded by a panorama of pitiful side glances.

It’s not really your birthday, you just had to put something down in the required blank of the employee contract, a farce of a thing really when it comes to Elias. It actually could be worse because it’s not your birthday. You had decided to put a date that had some actual significance to you.

Brilliant idea that exceptionalizes the stinging in your chest. 

You sigh but catch yourself from stooping as you remember your probable role as the current hot topic of conspiratorial whispers amongst the restaurant goers. You catch the eye of the latest waitress with a broad and near orbit, flashing a charming grin that hopefully tucks in the weariness you feel under your eyes.

_Well at least weekend was fun_ , you think, willing some memory to make itself known and emerge from the inky blankness. Your fingers stretch as wide as they can before they continue rhythmically drumming on the glazed tabletop.

“No pork please.” 

You wrench your body to twist towards the source of the voice.

Jon looks a little worn, but you can chalk it up to the usuals, as he’s not panting or shows any other sign of exertion. He seems to be in no hurry _also_ , taking the change back from the blonde at the register, careful to not spill any coins from stuffing them into his wallet.

The anger morphs into confusion as Jon crosses the restaurant to sit in a booth.

By himself.

You let some hysterical sound escape from your slackened jaw, and it startles a nearby patron. The rest of the world fills in as embarrassment creeps to mingle with your astonishment, now aware that you’ve been pretty much gawking at some guy who had walked in after being stood up for forty-two minutes.

It’s not “stood up.” You haven't been “stood up”, that would imply-- this is just Jon being a knob and an airhead again. 

The elderly hispanic woman leans out of the booth, unmoored by his squawk that could’ve sent her to her grave, to lay a veined hand on you.

“Oh, did you get stood up, sweetie?” she croaks. Her eyes are worn with warmth and her daughter seems to have inherited it. They both use it to regard you with utter pity.

You inwardly groan _because_ \--

“It’s not like that--”

Jon is approaching the table from the corner of your peripheral vision.

He’s sheepish and suddenly, the entire ordeal, all of the rounds of water filled up and passing traffic of shuffling faces around him with the same look and murmurs hits you at full momentum. You unclench your jaw, taking in a large breath, leaning in and ready to have it out.

But Jon stoops as he takes his reserved place facing you, laying his arms flat, elbows on the table. Your fingers are a mere brush away.

You let out a shaky breath as you retreat your hands into the safety of your lap. 

“Well?”

Jon’s expression is inappropriately neutral, brows angled in faint confusion, as if he’s returned from the washroom to find he’s misplaced the conversation.

You tilt your head in encouragement for some explanation.

“I’m not intruding am I?” Jon startles, pulling back, “I just happened-- I spotted you across the--” he gestures to the booth he was just in, which, yes-- “And came here to accompany you.” He trails off with an awkward chuckle. 

“To accompany me,” you say, head whirring and chest tightening with something that could be frustration.

“Of course,” Jon says, eyes on yours, trying for an easy laugh, “You don’t deserve to be alone.”

You swallow at the words. “I also don’t deserve to be stood up for nearly a whole hour, boss.”

Jon blinks, the second time eyes widening. He lurches back.   
  
“Oh, fuck,” he breathes.

You offer him a slight smile. “Look, why don’t we just order now and you can tell me what could be much more enticing than this handsome mug, huh?” You gesture to your face.

You wave a waitress over, careful to ease into a charming grin as she recognizes you from the long time you just sat by yourself. She touches your arm as you’re about to go back into conversation with Jon.

“Lemme know if you need anything, darling,” she says, low and firm. You give her a much more forced smile, closed lip.   
  
“No need to worry,” you reassure her, making sure to keep the tone light and easy though you smoothly nudge her hand off, “Think I finally got all I need now.” You look to your insufferable, infuriating, exasperating boss who looks beyond sheepish, hiding behind the menu he passes her.

You feel her give you a pat on the shoulder as you tsk at him, then gesture for him to talk.

“I was just compiling all the statements that I think potentially need to be recorded manually,” he says, because of course he does. You knew before he came over to sit, would know if you were kept to your own thoughts a while longer. You sigh anyway, because of course you do, and he continues on. 

“I’ve scheduled this week with a breakdown of statements I can possibly get through for each day and I actually think I could be fairly ahead as I was very generous with each daily quota--”   
  
You think you’ve been very generous at letting this conversation topic go on. 

You ruffle your hair.

“Jon--”

“Think I could actually get through some of the more substantial ones,” he says with pride in his pondering sort of way, “yes, can you actually take a look at some of those by this afternoon--”  
  
 _\--Is he seriously--?--_

Your incredulity must show in your face because he says, “I should be done with them _by_ this afternoon! I’ll just pass them on as soon as I’m done with--”   
  
“ _Jon!_ ”

He stops, looking down at the table. You sigh and the same heavy silence that seems to have enveloped the entire archives nowadays has followed them to the middle table for two of their go to diner.

“Look I came here so we can _relax_ , Jon,” you say, leaning forward and taking in his shoulders, fraught with energy, _Don’t you wanna relax?_ you think, and your fingers twitch in his direction.

“So I’d rather we not talk about work,” you say, trying to not ruin the mood yourself because you really did come here to relax, it’s been a while but you can swear you can still see his laugh lines even with his head ducked and in the shitty lighting.   
  
“Alright?” you reach across, offering your hand as his trace patterns on the lace tablecloth. He looks to you as if asking permission which is ridiculous since that’s what _you’re_ doing but he takes it. He takes it, a fold of his palm and fingers over yours. 

“Alright? That alright with you?” You smile and it’s for tact but the warmth of the contact allows some warmth in the smile as well. “‘Cuz it’s very alright with me. Preferable, even. Whole reason, actually.”  
  
“Alright, Tim,” he says, something in his voice. Or maybe that’s what he sounds like outside of his work, you’ve just both forgotten.

“Alright,” you echo with the same ease. And it really is quite simple. You put your clasped hands on the table, to rest. You’ve forgotten this too but not really. Not really, with how you naturally come to its conclusion. 

_Or_ , you think as you thumb over the side of his palm, _there’s just some things you know beyond memory, stored in your very being_.

You memorize his profile, trying to keep it in that same place, as he turns to awkwardly acknowledge the waiter coming in with the food, almost smacking his nose with a plate in his haste. You do instinctually pipe up at the same time he does to inquire about whether there’s any pork in the dish, making eye contact in startlement, before laughing. The waiter gives you a smile and wink as he sets the napkin in his lap. She nods in the direction of your clasped hands. You give her a wide grin.

“Is the mic still open tonight?” you say making direct eye contact with her. You’re not sure if it’s that same special memory kicking in or just your peripheral vision that picks up Jon snapping his head up to look at you in bewilderment, first in shock, then utter contempt.

The waiter smiles, placing a hand on your shoulder to tell you, yes, it would start soon, and they, looking at Jon as well, can come up whenever they are ready. Cheek.

You’ve been here before (with Jon of course) so you’re used to how good the menu items are but there’s that extra kick that the smugness provides that just makes the udon that much tastier. 

“Tim,” Jon starts, jaw remaining unhinged after he says your name in that way you revel in.

You point at him with a fork, speaking through a mouth full of noodles. “Better use that mouth to finish the food quick, boss,” you peer up from digging into your food, “Sign ups are about to be swamped soon.”

“Sign ups for what? Exactly?” Jon says, relentingly slicing into the last egg of the bento box, dread dripping all over his voice more deliciously than the soy sauce on his steamed veggies.

You reach over to grab a bite, already anticipating his other hand coming to smack yours.

You chew it smugly, though that is very good what they did with--

“I’m not going up there.” 

It’s funny how he acts like he can deter what’s bound to happen, though you have to admit with a couple more gulps of your orange juice, he does look very... becoming with a pout and arms firmly crossed. God help him, his old career pretentiousness is coming out.  
  
 _Just admit he’s handsome_ , he thinks, and ignores, and throws away in the Marianas Trench of his mind.

“There’s nothing you can do, boss,” you sing song-- as warm up of course, “Though you can pick your songs or have me pick for you.” You scoot the chair up closer so you don’t have to bend over the table as much, Jon as always makes it harder on your end but you laugh and already forgive him for it when you end up getting soy sauce on the shirt you modeled in front of the mirror for half an hour before getting stood up for twice the time. 

You forgive him for all of it, especially when he blushes so sweetly as he refuses to join in for the first song to his own detriment, and his own loss, as you get to belt out the love ballad right at him, to the whistles and claps of the other patrons who you’re sure are happy for you to get what you’ve waited so patiently for. 

You eventually rope him into a rock duet that really shouldn’t be a duet but doesn’t make sense singing on one’s own. You yell-sing Keane together and manage to sound decent, perhaps however, it's his own vocal talent that carries that song. You forgive him when you stare at his sweatlined jawline and you fumble over the chorus. That’s how it goes for most of their songs; the harmonization is not seamless, never just one voice, yet you two make it work. 

You don’t sing by yourself or after the first two or three times. It’s obvious he can carry a tune, hell a whole performance set, on his own. He never chooses to face it without you. You have no idea how you both could’ve convinced yourselves otherwise the last month or so.

Once you’ve drank enough that it’s not worth enough to keep drinking to distract you, when his pupils have swallowed the familiar brown in the full brightness of the spotlight, you find his hand and he finds your fingers to weave his into and you finally sync in your final bows. You tug him, laughing or just giggly and sober while he’s at it too, back to your seats where the chairs have found themselves next to each other. You let him press his sticky face on your shoulder, further ruining the shirt you actually like and admittedly cherish more now, and don’t mind the sweat as much when you press your chin against his forehead, though you really do.

You (and him, of course, always, now) end the night by obliterating everyone at trivia. The buzz in your system, in your thrumming hands tucked under your chin, has reached your head pleasantly. It’s not the only reason you let him pop off his seat with more energy than a rocket or the hammering heart in your ribcage. After a round, he insists it’s much too boring, “much too embarrassing, Tim, for me to do this by myself when we-- when _you_ signed us on as a team!”  
  
“I could ask to let you fly solo.”  
  
“Don’t be ridiculous.”  
  
“I don’t know, Jon, my head is kinda fuzzy--”  
  
“Stop being a drama queen and help me out, the next round is on literary classics--”  
  
So you do take his offer. Some people accuse him-- not you or both of you as a pair, him-- of this or that but you step in. You’re sure you’re both responsible in some parts for driving everyone away. Funny enough, you only notice when you manage to take your hands off from where they’re tucked around his waist, tugging his wriggling body wracked with laughter to press against yours. You help him to the train and even to his place even though you’re both aware he isn’t the drunk one. You both should point that out, maybe, at some point; that he doesn’t need your help and you’re only pretending to stumble. But he’s the one that stumbles going up his steps and your hands know where to hold him, how to keep him upright. So there’s that. It’s nothing. Jon moves and you protect his next step- this is how it is. Surely that’s unforgettable in its own right, unforgettable night be damned.

  
  


  
_It was a long one this time, they’re getting longer._ Tim shudders, breaking the tense silence. Cursed with good periphery, he sees Basira glancing up and gauging his hunched shoulder.

“It’s late.” His voice comes out level. Thank God for small miracles.

“I can give you a ride after work tomorrow, since I know where it is,” she decides on, by way of apology.

By the time he’s got it in himself to look up, Tim finds himself alone again.

  
  
  



	2. WaldosAkimbo's Art

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Scene at the Archives, During Better Times

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for all my support in my first adventure into this community and challenge. I did not have enough spoons or time to fully and properly flesh out some plot... threads [wink wonk] so expect a sister fic to be made and linked here soon!


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